It's a Nightmare
by SummerQuill
Summary: How he wished he could wake up. John reterns to the flat to find a nightmare. Sherlock has relapsed with his drug use forcing the doctor to confront old nightmares while adding to the list as he works to look after his Detective.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings errr  
>Mentions of drug and alcohol abuse<br>May be a slightly slash attitude but nothing really slashy in it.  
>Think that's about it.<strong>

**Sherlock and Co do not belong to me :'( boohoo **

**Hope you enjoy all the same :)**

It was a nightmare, worse than a nightmare and John knew about those.

The war had left him plenty of scars, before then his child hood had been… painful. There was very little in his life that had been normal, happy even simply innocent.

He had nightmares about the war but the worst ones were always about his family, his childhood. He'd run from that to a career in medicine and when that wasn't far enough straight in to the war. He'd been happy there, that had been the disturbing thing. Amongst the death and the fighting he had found a place where he could truly belong. Peace in the heart of chaos, he found peace.

Then he lost it. Back to England, back to his family and the bad memories, his father dead his sister following shortly after with the same habits. He couldn't watch her kill herself with her addiction, he refused to watch it again. He loved his sister he truly did and that's why he couldn't see her. He wouldn't watch her slowly die, trying and failing to save her, not again.

He lived for a time in dull mediocrity, wondering what the hell he could have done to deserve this, to deserve anything life had dished out to him so far. Life was dull and dark and boring, his leg hurt and Harry kept texting him.

Then he found Sherlock. Bazaar and brilliant Sherlock bloody Holmes, the genius consulting detective who turned the streets of London in to a battle ground, moaned, sulked and made rubbish tea. The flat mate that kept him up all night with his violin, set fire to his jumpers and dragged him around London chasseing murderers.

He was a sociopath and yet he cared in his own strange way. They were friends, flat mates and comrades in arms and John loved him for it.

Which was why this was a nightmare. Why _this_ was a bloody nightmare. Not because he'd had an argument with Sara, not because they needed milk and the rain poured down mercilessly while every bloody London cab seemed oblivious to his struggles. No, what made this a bloody nightmare was that one needle resting innocently on the carpet of 221b Backer Street.

For a moment John had just stared at it; water dripping from his coat and on to the floor in a steady tap taping. His mind had gone blank for a moment, because they hadn't had a case in weeks, because Sherlock's only experiment currently involved a frozen pigs head and a wood chipper.

The shopping bags were heavy in his hands and he dropped them ignoring the loud bang as they hit the floor. Everything was silent but for that gradual tapping and his own steady breathing. But that wasn't true; there was something else, another sound he didn't quite want to acknowledge.

A quite rasping of shallow breathing resonating from the sofa to John's right, where a pale slightly shaking body was slumped across the dark material he could see it out of the corner of his eye but he didn't want to look. He was staring at the needle on the floor with a dull sort of horror. His mind having pieced together what had happened, what _was _happening, froze and jolted, backing up as fast as it could as if to stop this happening all together.

Because this, _this_ was a nightmare.

John couldn't believe it. John didn't want to believe it. Doctor Watson however knew that there was a patient in need of his attention and that instinct was what took over next. Later he would remember it as a haze, a painful and difficult haze but a haze all the same.

He crouched by the sofa mindless of his leg and checked Sherlock's pulse, temperature, checked the dilatation of his pupils. He rolled him on to his side and he waited. He sat and he waited and he listened to the painful rasping of Sherlock's breathing, to the rain hampering against the windows.

He stared at the shrunken pale form of his friend as he shivered and gasped, sweat covering his skin and hair falling lankly about his face. His genius detective, the one he trusted, his friend, Sherlock.  
><em>And he's done this to himself…<em>

Johns throat tightened, his chest clenched painfully until he couldn't breathe. Every fiber of his being refused to cry, refused to make anything of the pain that was aching in his heart and burning just behind his eyes. He took a steady breath in, and out. Calm and slow anything to hold back the tide.

He would not react, he would be calm and he would watch and wait and listen, because Sherlock needed him. There was something else though and through this pained professional haze he managed to ignore it. Managed to stare straight at Sherlock's pale and sweaty face, look anywhere but there.

But between one harsh breath and the next he had looked, he had looked and looked away and refused to look again, refused to acknowledge the plain and painful truth. Because there just in the crook of Sherlock's arm, there where the fresh needle mark still showed that tiniest amount of blood, there were four or five similar marks dotted around the same wound, long enough to be a few days old but nothing more.

Some maybe a week, others simply days, none too old as to be before John's arrival (those had likely faded away hopefully long ago) they were there glairing him in the face. Sherlock had been using regularly, he'd been using and John hadn't noticed.

It was horrible, the waiting and the knowing. His mind flashed back to the countless times he'd sat with his sister at home as she was sick on the floor or in the hospital where she sat shivering in the cold white light. Where he begged and begged and she promised and promised him that she would never do it again, over and over.

And he sat there waiting and knowing that Sherlock would be fine he would get better. He would recover and then some time, one day maybe tomorrow maybe next week he would do the exact same thing over again. That brilliant Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing and he wouldn't stop, he would dull that brilliant mind of his, poison himself again and again and then he would die.

He would make John watch. John didn't know if he could.

The good doctor sat on the floor at his friend's side and he didn't leave him all night. He sat and he watched and he waited and he saw every moment in his life where this had happened before, his father, his sister, even his own addiction; the war, the adrenalin.

Those long hours could be described only with one word; excruciating. With his hand wrapped solidly around Sherlock's wrist for the pulse, with his ears listening for every troubled breath John lived out a nightmare and suffered every other he'd had the misfortune to have. When he ran out of memories, they ran back in a loop in his head, this time with some new additions where Sherlock was there in the place of his father shouting, losing all control and still going back, again and again, slowly dying for his vice.

Eventually he reached a point where he thought he couldn't bare it any more. Where his shoulders were shaking and any moment he was going to retch. That moment when the world was spinning and his life, with all its heart break was screaming in his head, screaming for a release that all his army training had denied it.

That was the moment Sherlock Holmes gasped and woke; brilliant blue grey eyes flashed open hidden by blown pupils. He gasped as the morning sunlight hit his eyes, shading them with a shaking hand. This was when he noticed that his other hand was seemingly out of commission and followed it down, down to the wrist where it was clasped tightly in the warm steady hands of his trusted army doctor.

Sherlock's eyes widened, his mouth parting to form a shocked O shape. John didn't say a word, just remaining still under that shocked gaze listening to the choke as Sherlock tried and failed to talk, stared in to those dull eyes of the genius still locked away, still inhibited by the drug.

Then as if a switch had flipped he dropped the hand and stood. Unfolding himself stiffly from the floor, crossing the room to pull the curtains closed, then to the kitchen to get Sherlock a glass of water. He ignored the glassy eyes that followed him all the way, ignored the detective as he leaned forward as if preparing to take after him and not being quite able to do it.

He moved about on instinct even when the haze had melted away and the nightmares had faded, he moved around knowing everything, experiencing his new nightmare in a hollow perfect clarity. The pain was raw, a deep new crater in his heart bore freely to the world.

He helped Sherlock; he helped him get better and sent him back to sleep. He helped him and he sat and he watched and he knew; this was his newest and worst nightmare. He'd found Sherlock who had cured all his ills, set him on the right proper life with purpose. He'd found peace, home and a freind and now he was losing it again and he didn't think he could bear it.

He watched Sherlock sleeping, the calmer healthier breathing a stark improvement to what had come before, the calm restful expression a mockery of the torment he had inflicted on the older man. John sat pensively in his chair by the fire, he knew Sherlock would do this again and he couldn't stop it.

The question that remained was, could he stay and watch it?

**Reviews are loved: P If you want this to continue say so, or it can be a one shot who knows :P **

**Hope you enjoyed thanks for reading**

**SQ**


	2. Chapter 2

**Glad you liked it guys and shall continue : P sorry about any spelling mistakes, those will be the ones Words spell check missed out. Btw I have very scant knowledge of drugs and such, at least no more than I have seen on tv and in school talks (we had to sing eugh) so this is really guess work on that front. **

**Thanks again hope you enjoy : )**

Sherlock wakes slowly, certainly slower than his mind is used to. Slowly it winds through the details, working out his current position -_flat, sofa- _without opening his eyes. The thick scent of tea and paper fills the room along with the acidic bite of yesterdays experiment –ruined by now-. It's Morning, so he fell asleep on the sofa. This still doesn't explain why his brain is so slow to wake, nor why his memory is so... vague.

He winds back to what he can remember. _Bored_, John leaving for work, tea left on the table, food in the fridge _'A bloody pigs head Sherlock?' Still bored. _He remembers the little black box then, yes the boredom had pushed him too far yet again and he knew John wasn't coming back tonight, off to Sarah's so there wouldn't be a problem on that count. Usual dosage, good stuff, boredom neutralized.

That wasn't all. The scent of tea was fresher in the air, made recently. This compiled with the soft weight spread over him -_the blanket from his room-_ someone had come to look after him. _Mycroft – already knew, disapproved, would not get involved. Lestrade – Didn't know, unlikely. Mrs Hudson – Already taken her soothers, no reason to come up, unlikely. _

John was at Sarah's, it was unlikely he would return simply to check on Sherlock- unless not all went to plan, some sort of disagreement. -_Oh_ that stupid woman, his mind growled spitefully. Distracting John while he needed him and then completely failing to do so when Sherlock needed him gone. He remembered now, waking briefly seeing John, his expression blank, shut away, distant and professional as he moved around to help Sherlock.

All the facts lined up in seconds. Sherlock had used, the black box was probably still resting on the coffee table. John had an argument with Sarah, ruining his plans to stay at her house and instead he'd come home. Back to Baker Street to find Sherlock in the state he'd been in. John hadn't been happy when Sherlock woke, worried and possibly angry, though Sherlock hadn't been in the best state to judge this at the time, John almost seemed hurt, haunted.

Sherlock winced, feeling a lurch of discomfort twist through his gut, what was that? It hadn't been a side affect he was familiar with. His next conclusion was that it would have been the result of some emotion, a psychological reaction manifesting in physical discomfort, but that was discarded quickly and the problem filed away, awaiting further data. He had other things to be thinking about now.

John was dozing in his usual armchair. Sherlock could hear the heavy rhythmic breathing and the slight shift of his woolen jumper against the chairs fabric. Sherlock paused aware John would not be aware he was awake. He realized he had to tread carefully here. John was a doctor and he hadn't reacted so well when he'd first become aware of the drugs –through Lestrade's blackmail on the first case- which is why Sherlock had limited his using to when the Doctor away was since his latest relapse.

A considerably large part of his mind grumbled that he didn't care what John thought or did. His secretive actions had been for his own purposes. Now that the Doctor had found out he would just have to move on, they both would. John would shout and gripe and then everything would go back to normal and who _cares _anyway. John could make a fool of himself as much as he wished it was really nothing he should concern himself with.

Another part of his mind argued that he would really prefer is John didn't shout and gripe and make a fool of himself even if just to save Sherlock the head ache. Seeing John disappointed or angry with him tended to me more of an uncomfortable experience then he would ever let on, they were feelings better avoided and circumstances he would rather not look too closely at.

Still, Sherlock conceded John couldn't be too angry. After all he put up with all his other habits, lack of sleep and food, he didn't approve of them but he accepted them even if he still tried to get him to eat, nagged him to go to bed, even if it was to spare himself the violin at three in the morning. Drugs couldn't be too different.

Finishing the last trails of his deductions Sherlock opened his eyes. The pain was to be expected, the pang of a headache pushed to the back of his mind as he focused on the dark room. There was a glass of water resting on the table in front of him. The curtains had been drawn and the lights were out, probably what John had been busy seeing to the first time Sherlock woke up. The small black box was still perched on the table, it had been pushed further from where Sherlock had last left it but aside from that it had been ignored.

Sherlock licked his lips and finally looked up to John. The old army Doctor was slumped in his armchair his head tilted away from the detective so that his face was in shadow, but he could still pick out the worry lines etched in to his companions brow. The doctor looked warn, tired, most likely from spending the night in the armchair, waking up every so often to check on Sherlock. Even in his sleep his mouth was turned downwards, his brow crumpled slightly in worry. Sherlock picked out whatever clues he could. How while slumped John had been settled in an army like state, his back straight even as his shoulders slumped, on guard and professional but obviously uneasy.

Sherlock quickly deducted his fight with Sarah as the cause of his upset, the unease could be to do with finding Sherlock, obviously not what he'd planed to be doing with his Friday night. He was on guard because he had a patient, ergo old army habits kicked in, more so than usual as he was by now used to facing combat with Sherlock.

He wasn't happy probably angry that he had relapsed in to a habit that he didn't approve of and of course he was worried. John tended to worry unnecessarily. Sherlock's eyes flickered once again over the Doctor, checking for anything he might have missed but any smaller deductions proved irrelevant to the current problem though he noted Johns shoulder would be particularly uncomfortable after last night.

Sherlock reached forward for the glass of water, knowing he would need his voice soon. He hadn't considered the affects of the drugs on his movements. His hand overshot its mark, hitting the glass and knocking it over. He winced at the crash and thud as it hit the table before rolling on to the carpet. He didn't need to look up to know that the noise had woken John; he could practically feel those usually kind eyes burning in to the side of his head.

For some reason it seemed a better plan to keep his eyes on the floor rather than looking up at his friend.

"Ah, John." He said, or at least he tried to his throat was dry so it came in a sort of rasp.

John scowled at him though his heart didn't quite seem to be in it. Then he got to his feet, picking up the glass and moving to the kitchen. Sherlock's eyes narrowed suppressing a sigh. John was angry, of course he would chose now to be difficult. Sherlock tried to call some sarcastic remark but none came to mind.

John came back with a glass of water gripped steadily in his right hand. Hs eyes were hard and didn't look at Sherlock as he handed him the glass. Sherlock frowned as he took it, eyeing the doctor. He had predicted anger but not this, John was usually quite vocal when Sherlock angered him and he had been fully prepared to face John's 'soldier look' as he called it in his mind.

This John didn't quite fit with what he'd predicted or seen before. John shuffled back to his seat, back and shoulders stiff as he moved. As he went to sit, Sherlock noticed the slight tremor in his left hand. Sipping from the drink he paused cautiously.

"You're upset with me." He stated, the familiarity of the moment not lost on him. This time though John didn't answer. His eyes lowered to the ground while his lips pressed together in a hard line, "Nothing to say at all John?" Sherlock asked snidely.

John winced. Instead of getting angry, Sherlock frowned as he watched John almost flinch away. The soldier look in his eyes had changed and he could see the tinge of desperation as he tried to reevaluate himself. In that moment, he reflected, John looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen him before. That same twist of discomfort stabbed him in the lower abdominal and Sherlock began struggling with words.

"I'm not angry with you." John finally said, his voice seemed soft and almost pained in the quite room. He looked lost in that moment, the hardened army Doctor lost in his pain. Then his eyes snapped up to meet his friends and some of the firmness remained, "Bloody stupid thing to do though, Sherlock." He said roughly.

"I was bored." Sherlock replied. John's teeth clenched.

"That's not an excuse."

"It's a statement."

John didn't argue, throwing Sherlock off balance. He'd already calculated what he was likely to say next and his own response, only to find John looking away, distant eyes and slouched shoulders losing whatever small measure of anger he had managed to gather. Sherlock frowned, slipping back in to his deductions while John stood mumbling something about making tea.

He really wasn't angry. It was the first thought that occurred to Sherlock. Even from the beginning John would be indignant, angry and ready to voice his thoughts in the face of Sherlock's logic, especially in his 'not good' moments. John had always _cared_ when he did something he didn't approve of or wasn't seen as polite. He was fairly certain taking drugs would be in his 'unacceptable' range. Yet he wasn't angry.

The kettle began to hiss in the kitchen and there were sounds of John getting mugs out of the cupboard. A hushed curse as he discovered the jar of meal worms in the corner before it fell silent again. Sherlock smirked from his seat knowing John wouldn't ask, lately he had settled on the realization that more often than not, he really didn't want to know.

Still though his mind was quick to switch back to the strange behavior, being found on the sofa using drugs by your X-army doctor roommate had to be a not good moment. Sherlock shook his head irritably as his mind went full circle back to the beginning again.

John wasn't angry and if he wasn't angry then it was fine, there was no need to waste perfectly good brain time deducing the reasoning around it. He wasn't angry so it was _fine,_ he should just be grateful and move on.

The consulting detective's eyes fell on the small dark box and he frowned slightly. He would have to be more careful next time, it would be best not to try John's patience again. Sherlock pressed his hands together in front of his face and sighed. John's behavior still bothered him but he wasn't angry so he was good.

When John entered the room with his usual cup of tea the small black box was gone and Sherlock was lying on his back across the couch, his hands pressed together as if in prayer before his face while his eyes were shut lightly as if he were sleeping. His shirt had been straightened out while his jacket had found its place folded on the edge of the arm rest.

It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all, or at least it would have been if the hollowed out feeling in his gut didn't ruin the illusion, reminding him just what he had spent the rest of the night and most or the morning dealing with.

Everything looked as if it were back to normal but John still knew it was a nightmare he was not likely to forget.

**This isn't the end either! There will be more. Thinking five chapters or something I don't know. I usually overshoot the estimate of how many chapters I'm gonna write.**

**But anyway hope you enjoyed, feel free to review and tell me what you think :P (translation: prettypretty extra please review and tell me what you think!) XP**

**And sorry I have taken awhile summers a hard time to write for me, very busy in the sun : P Which is why the next update won't be for awhile I'm going on holiday for two weeks on Tuesday and I doubt I will be able to get the next chapter up by then. **

**Again very sorry, reviews are loved and shall continue working on this fic over my holiday :P**

**SQ**


	3. Chapter 3

**Helllo again back to England with the cold and the rain, seems summers pretty much done with :(. Sorry for being late, had collage, another fic and a new fandom to get obsessed with. Nevermind…**

**Thanks so very much for your reviews I really enjoyed them and they helped with the writer's block : P**

**Sherlock still not mine  
>Hope you enjoy<strong>

The day was uneventful after that. John went to bed for a few hours and even when he did wake he didn't speak to Sherlock accept when it was unavoidable. Sherlock played his violin, rattling off some of John's favorites as an afterthought but even this didn't seem to rouse John from his bad mood.

In the end he gave up and the days wore on. John didn't ask about cases as he usually did, though he still made sure Sherlock ate, somehow he wasn't as forceful as usual and something of the usual steely determination had faded in to something more pliant. Their usual passionate arguments disappeared completely as conversation dwindled and soon enough they weren't even talking at all, bustling about their lives like passing strangers in the street.

John couldn't really bring himself to break the silence. It was his fault of course, he began avoiding Sherlock, staying at work for longer and going to his room before long. On his days off he would purposely wake at times he knew Sherlock would be elsewhere or leave quickly. It took him awhile to realize what he had really been doing and he wondered if Sherlock had deduced it or if his usual sociopathic ways had blocked it from him.

He was cutting himself off before he could be hurt. An act of self defense that entailed cutting off the man who had become his closest friend, he felt a pang of guilt at this, at the selfishness of his actions. But when he thought back to Sherlock stretched out over the couch completely out of reach… he found the urge to get away only grow stronger.

His usual nightmares of Afghanistan had been replaced once more by those of his youth. His father had been a short man but to ten year old John he'd always looked a giant. The fury that had consumed him after John's mother left pushed him to drink and that lead to violence, he lost his job, only left the house to buy more drink. John didn't know to this day where he got the money from to last so long.

In his dreams he was back there again, hopelessly small in the face of his raving father. He forgot all about Afghanistan, forgot he was a soldier and a grown man and was once again taken in by the cold terror as his father took another swing at him, as Harry came back from a late night cackling and screaming before breaking down on the floor, spilling half a bottle of port over the cream carpet. His father hadn't woken up that night but in his dreams anything seemed to be possible as his subconscious punished him for all that he failed to do.

This particular dream was worse though. Seventeen year old Harry was slumped on the floor by the door of Baker Street. The apartment was strangely empty as John walked past her. His father was lying dead before the fireplace, face twisted in to a look of shock and anger as it fixed solidly on the wall where the smiley face was formed in bullet holes. The room seemed to shrink and darken, Harry's screams grew all the louder. That was when his father moved, his face shifted and reformed. Usually rounded face stretching and growing gaunter, paler, his cheekbones shifted higher and became more prominent while his brown eyes changed a glittering grey.

Sherlock Holmes lay dead on the floor of surrounded by needles. Mrs. Hudson joined Harry crying on the floor and for some reason she was shouting something about her soothers.

By now John was shaking, backing away from the scene as fast as he could even while his legs seemed to freeze in their retreat. Fear was forcing its way up his throat and he couldn't breathe, tears were burning in his eyes and he just couldn't get a_way. _Suddenly Sherlock's head snapped around, dark blue lips forming two cold words that cut John to the core.

"_Your fault." _

John woke with a start in his bed gasping for breath. He had broken out in a cold sweat and his throat hurt as if he had been straining to scream but not quite managing it. Falling back in to his bed John went through the usual motions after a nightmare, relax, breath, calm down. Once he was feeling a little better he got shakily to his feet and headed for the stairs, more careful then usual as he felt as if his leg was going to give way any moment.

Trying not to make much noise he snuck down to the kitchen. Sherlock's door was shut and all the lights were out giving him some extent of privacy as he flicked the kitchen light on and made straight for the kettle. Once he had found a clean mug he bustled around to find where Sherlock had moved the tea bags to and placed everything where it needed to be…

The kettle was still boiling and there was nothing left to do. All the energy seemed to leave him in a flood; he exhaled deeply, feeling all of the tension drain from his body with it. He almost laughed out loud but stopped himself. John bloody Watson, faced war, unspeakable atrocities, London's worst criminals, Sherlock in his black moods. Supposedly a good, brave man and here he was at one o'clock in the morning running to the kettle to hide from a man who had been dead for years and a guilt that was illogical. Childish, that was the only word for it. Sneaking around avoiding his flat mate, sulking like a child or a kicked dog.

Sherlock's little pet, so terribly loyal. Well at least half of the comment had been correct.

The kettle whistled and he quickly moved through the usual, tea bag, sugar, milk. Then he was shuffling in to the sitting room cup in hand. He flicked on the light, almost startled when the couch appeared empty of any consulting detective. He moved to his seat near the TV with the union-jack pillow already in place.

His eyes lit on the black leather chair that served as Sherlock's perch. '_So touchingly loyal'._ He looked away. Leaving the mug on the small table at his arm, he buried his face in his hands and swallowed the low moan that seemed to have been forcing its way up his throat. This was so bloody typical, that everything for awhile had been so right- the sudden occurrence where he found that no, he was not alone in the world and he didn't have to die slowly of boredom in a suffocating normal London. That sudden burst of meaning would be destroyed by another just as sudden burst of weakness.

Another realization that Doctor John Hamish Watson was not as strong and brave as he had once made himself out to be, he had this one stupid painful weakness that would render everything to the ground. because he would do anything to protect himself, this weakness, he would curl around it and run for his life just to know that he would never have to feel that way again.

Because certainly in this case the brave John Watson was just one thing, a coward and he would rather never feel another thing then sit here and have that one vicious cycle battering him on both sides, from the two people in this world he cared about the most.

"So when are you moving out then?" the deep voice was sudden and unexpected, causing John to tense in his seat before he turned his head, ever so slightly to see the dark lean figure leaning against the doorway.

"What?"

"You heard." Sherlock murmured voice cold and eyes like steal.

John stared at him for a moment but it didn't do any good, his mind seemed to have come to a wiring halt in the face of this- well whatever this was. His eyes scanned the detective looking for some clue but as usual Sherlock gave nothing away.

For a moment the doctor couldn't quite believe it. Surely he hadn't just asked that? And with an expression that looked almost as if it were worthy of directing at Donovan, or worse yet _Anderson_. Letting out an irritated sigh Sherlock drifted across the room, all catlike grace and poise. For a moment he may have hesitated between the couch and his chair, but if he had it was a Sherlock hesitation that lasted barely a few milliseconds before he moved quickly to his preferred seat.

He was dressed in his usual pajamas, the lose grey shirt and flowing dressing gown settling around him like clothes hanging off a scare crow. For a moment though the sleeve was knocked back and John caught sight of at least three nicotine patches working their way up his pale arm.

When the consulting detective settled in his seat John thought he felt rather like Mycroft must feel when he sat in John's very chair getting that very glare from across the room. From a man like his own brother, Sherlock looking at him like a stranger and intruder.

In all the words he'd ever put on his blog, or had even ever spoken John wouldn't be able to describe or explain the cold cloud that seemed to seep across his heart at this. He wouldn't even be able to explain to himself why those piercing grey blue eyes suddenly felt like daggers driven straight through his chest. The only thing he did know was that this was a very different Sherlock to the one he'd shared Chinese and chased over roof tops. This was the Sherlock that sulked not because an old woman had died but because he had lost the game to which she was the prize.

And he was staring right at John as if he couldn't tell for the life of him why the army doctor was sitting across from him in his apartment. The calm cold look on his face was almost enough to make John feel sick.

The Detective quirked an eyebrow at his shocked companion.

"Well?"

-S-

**Sorry for being late once again. Reviews are loved sooooooooo very much. :P**

**Catch  
>You<br>Later **

**SQ**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the HUGE wait. I was very distracted by school and now Merlin is out and OMG soooo very epic XP But I am back on track, this chapter is here and the next one is one the way :)**

**As usual thanks so much for your reviews and please please please feel free to review again, I love to hear from ya :P **

**Sherlock is still not mine :'( Also I am not making any profit with this fanfic :P  
>Hope you enjoy.<strong>

Sherlock heard John shuffle down the stairs, limp worse than ever, until he reached their floor and moved rapidly to the kitchen. It didn't take much to deduce that the usual nightmares had driven him there, the events that had occurred in Afghanistan replaying in his mind.

He couldn't help but wonder briefly if the dreams were driving him away but that was quickly discarded. He was leaving because he was angry, disappointed even. The dreams were an after affect along with the limp.

Sherlock scowled at his doorway, lying slumped in his bed where he hadn't really been sleeping, tapping at his violin that he had no intention of playing. The shuffling noises in the kitchen went on until he found it was the sole focus of his concentration. It was insanity, lying in the dark and listening to the footsteps and wondering why they were so determined to walk away.

Insane, stupid, illogical.

Sherlock sprang to his feet with a light hiss, avoiding the clutter and mess that took up the majority of his floor. Stupid and illogical were things he wasn't- couldn't be, insane could be debated though he didn't care so much for Andersons small minded ideas.

Sherlock stood by his bed practically buzzing in place as the storm clouds rolled over his face and anger filled him in a clogging mass. Fury was cold, betrayal was burning and if he was battered by these emotions for much longer he felt he would literally explode. He felt like he was literally shrinking in place. Changing where he stood, or maybe he had already changed without even noticing the difference, because he was _feeling_ again and it was John's _fault_.

He barely realized he was standing in the front room until he heard his voice break the suffocating silence with the shatter of broken glass.

"So when are you moving out then?"

John jumped, tensed and then his dark eyes flickered to Sherlock looking every bit as exhausted as they usually did after one of his nightmares. There was a lingering of something else there, fear? Hurt? Though why he should be hurt when _he_ was the one leaving Sherlock the consulting detective would never know.

"What?" His voice was softer then Sherlock's, more mellow and mournful but Sherlock had no time for that now he was bundled up in his anger and betrayal and he was not about to crawl out until John was gone or staying here forever.

"You heard." Sherlock growled and the sound was positively filled with bitterness to his own ears.

John seemed to be in a state of shock. His facial features flickered through a series of emotions and somewhere along the way there was anger but the emotion seemed to be battling for dominance rather than his usual short fuse. He settled for disbelief for a moment pushing all the other useless emotions aside.

Sherlock practically growled in frustration before marching across the room to- to- where was he going again? His thoughts were lost, clouded by emotion from the first and now, where? Sit down, he had to sit down. Couch or armchair? Armchair he could scowl at John better.

By the time he fell in to his usual seat he was already scrabbling for his thoughts, John was going to leave/ John wanted to leave. His only…friend would be leaving him just like all the rest. He forced down the lump in his throat, he'd faced worse, world famous consulting detectives shouldn't get lumps in their throat.

He glared at John, John who was leaving, John who didn't care, he glared at the Doctor and ignored the flinch, ignored the sunken shoulders and baggy eyes and the fear. Because John was the one in the wrong, John made him care that he would leave. When he spoke next his voice was frosted with fury.

"Well?"

John said nothing.

Sherlock usually saw everything but he didn't see the moment it happened, later he could infer. John was hurt for whatever selfish reason that may be, the flash of pain in his eyes at Sherlock's words were as clear as ever and when John was hurt in proper warrior fashion he came back fighting. Anger that had been struggling for control so long was dragged to the front in a rush, John's eyes narrowed, any fear or weakness pushed away as his mouth pressed in to a firm line.

"Any reason you so suddenly want me out on the streets?"

"Hardly sudden, John. You have been contemplating leaving the flat for, I would say, well over a week. As you have yet to make your decision I thought I might press the subject. We are approaching the end of the month after all and Miss Hudson will want some forewarning."

Sherlock smiled the fake smile he used on Lestrade and murder suspects and watched John repress the urge to recoil at the sight.

"I don't remember ever mentioning wanting to leave." He growled as if holding out, pushing back the argument that would almost be inevitable in the circumstances.

But that wasn't what Sherlock wanted, waiting, he _wanted_ them to argue, _wanted_ John to shout, if anything then at least to see some measure of emotion back in his eyes, rather than misery and disappointment that seemed a constant in their current lives.

"I think we both know it's hardly necessary for you to voice your thoughts without already making them painfully obvious." John eyes narrowed and his teeth gritted but he made no move to speak again. Sherlock pushed harder, wanting to know… What exactly? Anything, everything, he wanted to know why, he wanted John to s_top leaving him. _"You're disappointed with me… again. This time though you actually show signs of giving up. Moving in with Harry?"

Sherlock hadn't expected the bark of bitter laughter from the Doctor, his eyes burning with…something. Something, for all his studies of human behavior why was it that John alone seemed to elude him? Sherlock focused on his annoyance and ignored the way the cold, harsh laughter made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"You really have no idea do you?" John snorted. He was still smiling, though to call it a smile wasn't quite right. A grimace maybe but not John's usual smile that brightened up his whole face until you couldn't help but smile back, this one was different and Sherlock didn't like it.

"Are you leaving?"

"No." John answered in something that only just fell short of a snarl.

That wasn't the final answer though; Sherlock knew that there was more that John just wouldn't say.

"You want to leave." He murmured matter of factly, "anyone would think you had only stayed this long for the financial benefits-"

"I've told you I'm not leaving Sherlock!"

"Then what else has changed?" Sherlock snapped.

John fell silent once again, jaw straining reflectively. He wanted to shout, wanted to walk out, Sherlock could see it in his eyes and knew the only thing holding him in his chair was a desperate need to see this through, and to win if at all possible. Maybe he had already won, he had stated that Sherlock had no idea what was going on and he was leaving-

"Why do you care?" The voice was flat, pressed through gritted teeth and Sherlock once again found himself staring in to furious flint like eyes, "You're a sociopath aren't you? You've told everyone enough." Sherlock glared, he didn't have an answer.

John shook his head irritably before standing. With a last scowl at Sherlock he strode from the room leaving his tea where he had left it, still steaming on the small table. Sherlock sat in silence glaring at the wall trying to convince himself he had won. It didn't work.

**Sort of a filler chapter on top of being so late sorry guys but if all goes to plan we'll have Mycroft turning up next chapter to give Sherlock a quick kick so maybe that will help make it up to you.  
>Once again reviews are ALWAYS apriciated and I am very sorry for any and all spelling mistakes do feel free to call me out on them.<strong>

**Hope you enjoyed  
>SQ<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Still slow to update sorry guys, school is a nasty place for average and bellow students :P and with the amount of homework I have it makes it hell. **

**Hope you enjoy anyway, Sherlock still doesn't belong to me and most very likely never will. **

Sherlock stayed in his seat for the rest of the night and didn't even move as John shuffled down stairs and left for the surgery. He didn't particularly want to think about that, didn't want to think about last night or the fact the man would probably spend the rest of the day pouring out his miseries to that dull woman he was so insistent on going out with.

Sherlock scowled at the thought before discarding it. He was successful which was a relief as lately he had been finding it harder and harder to delete information relevant to John, but the thought of dull, boring Sarah seemed to knock his mind back in to the normal habits. He was surprised he even remembered her name.

Still though, Sherlock wasn't thinking about that, he scowled at the wall and tried not to think about John. His mind idled over the usual thoughts at break neck speed, cases, Lestrade, the crime rate, chasing criminals with John, his annoying brother…

Ignoring the fact he had failed to avoid the subject all together Sherlock huffed and considered looking for John's gun. It was a relief to Miss Hudson, the wall and probably a large extent of the furniture when the front door slid open and strong precise footsteps were heard traipsing along the hall. Sherlock groaned in distaste, throwing himself backwards on to the settee. He would have known it was Mycroft even without the gentle tapping of the umbrella against the wall.

He didn't have to look up as the individual made it up the first few stairs in to the apartment and he didn't bother to look up when he strode across the room and settled himself in to John's chair.

"Well Sherlock it seems once again you fail to surprise me." His brother said in a bored and somehow disappointed tone. Sherlock flicked a glare at him.

"What do you want Mycroft?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed at the younger sibling, his right hand absently spinning the dark umbrella on the floor as he glanced to the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes irritably.

"John's out, as I'm sure you know so you'll have to make your own tea if you want it. Or even better find some elsewhere." Sherlock muttered angrily, then adding as an afterthought, "and we're out of biscuits."

"Let's not waste time on old conversations when we have more important things to talk about." He brother said impatiently.

Reaching in to his suit jacket he recovered a small folder, Sherlock had seen its impression on his jacket as he walked around, too large for the pocket, better suited to a brief case. Mycroft however had no briefcase and it was raining, that and he hated to carry his work out in the open.

"I'm not taking any cases." Sherlock muttered irritably.

"It's not a case." Mycroft said sternly.

Mycroft was looking down at the tan envelope as if he was torn between ripping it in to small pieces or throwing it in the fire. There were at least three seconds where his brother seemed to actually be debating those choices. His voice had been mellowed, a tinge of disgust below the words where a vain of anger, however rare this emotion seemed to be in his brother, crept through like poison. It was a fleeting moment and then the usual Mycroft mask was back in place.

Sherlock was still trying to deduce what on earth could inspire this reaction in his brother when Mycroft sniffed irritably and held out the file casually to Sherlock. The detective took it slowly, cautiously as if he expected the offending file to bite. He didn't open it right away, taking in the age of the wrinkled corners and then the name scrawled neatly in the left corner, '_John H Watson'._

"I would rather I did not have to intervene," Mycroft said blandly, "But once again it seems your habits are driving you to your destruction and Dr Watson has been such a good influence so far."

Sherlock took this in and when it became clear his brother wasn't going to elaborate further, sat up in his seat and placed the folder down on the coffee table, deducing what he could. It was a medical file, a report of some age and not one for John as a Doctor but as a patient. The date on the paper showed that he would have been in his late childhood to early teens. Sherlock threw a last glance up at his brother before opening the file. His eyes scanned the full report sheet quickly but he found himself slowing by the time he reached the second paragraph. He swallowed.

"His father was an alcoholic." Mycroft stated not looking over at his brother, "Most likely triggered by the death of his mother, certainly not an uncommon state. He became violent and John took it upon himself at the age of eight to protect his sister. This is one of the first reports but there are more."

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft feeling vaguely… not good, as grey blue eyes so much like his own flickered up to him.

The report was detailed, in a vague tick box kind of way. John was nine years and four months old, he had bruised his ribs, two were broken and he had fractured his ankle and wrist. He had a concussion and needed stitches to a hair line fracture, on the left side of his head. He'd been fixed up, given drugs and sent back on his way. Despite the fact that the doctors notes commented 'several bruises on torso, fist like appearance…'

Sherlock ran his hands viciously through his hair and glanced away from the files, mind whirling angrily as he tried to process this in to the John he knew.

"Why are you showing me this?" He asked.

"Oh do use your head." Mycroft snapped irritably, losing his temper for the first time in years. Sherlock looked up in surprise at the angry tone in his voice, "His father was an alcoholic _Sherlock_ and he beat John in to the ground as a result. He became an army doctor and left the country as soon as he could. When his sisters marriage broke down and she turned back to drinking he didn't go back to help her, usually such a caring person, didn't you ever wonder _why_ he refused his sister in her time of need?"

"Because it had happened before and he couldn't help her…" Sherlock mutter softly.

"Yes it had and he couldn't help her, the last time he tried finally she lashed out and he told her he wouldn't help her again, which is when he went off to Afghanistan for his last tour."

Mycroft's voice finished with a soft purr as he rattled off the last of his deductions before leaving the room in a suffocating silence. Sherlock leaned forward placing his elbows on his legs and leaning his face against his hands.

"You are probably one of the very few people he has ever trusted entirely," Mycroft mused his voice soft, "certainly outside of the army. He considers you his closest friend Sherlock." There was a slight hesitation in Mycroft's voice as he looked down at his younger brother who was locked in a staring contest with the floor, "When he found you… incapacitated, I don't doubt it bought back certain memories. He can stand certain things, your less destructive habits and your insistence on that false diagnosis 'Sociopath' but it seems the good Doctor is rather against watching you slowly kill yourself while he can do nothing to stop you." Mycroft sighed before getting to his feet.

"He doesn't mind chasing after armed criminals with me." Sherlock muttered, almost a last attempt to make a point. Mycroft just shot him a last disappointed look.

"Armed criminals he can protect you from, your own stupidity however he is quite helpless against."

Mycroft turned and left without a word, his umbrella didn't spin or tap and he swept from the place as if he couldn't leave fast enough.

-M-

John pulled his jacket closer around him and he neared , it was cold. Summer giving way to winter and returning with the usual icy chill that caught in the back of his throat and caused his breath to steam out in front of him, he was in a rush to get back, even if Sherlock was being insufferable it wasn't worth sitting in the cold sulking. At least not when he could sit in his room sulking instead.

John had just reached the door when it opened and the tall imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes stepped out. The Government representative looked distracted and when he saw John the doctor was almost certain he saw a flicker of surprise before it was quickly masked by the usual Holmesiam expression.

"Ah John, quite day at the clinic was it?"

John pushed back a snappy reply, reminding himself that though Mycroft was annoying it was his brother he was supposed to be angry at.

"Could say that. What are you doing here?" John questioned stopping by the door.

Mycroft smiled lightly at him, the same calculated smile that didn't really mean anything .

"Just putting my brother straight on some matters, has to be done every few months, lord knows what would happen to London if I didn't."

Mycroft swiftly moved to the car as the door swung open for him. John watched him cautiously wondering if the older Holmes had just tried to make a joke.

"Goodbye John."

The door shut behind him and the car drove away smoothly leaving John standing suspiciously on the front step. His eyes jumped up suspiciously to the door. Was Sherlock on drugs again? He wouldn't put it past him but Mycroft seemed the over protective type and probably would have taken Sherlock with him if that were the case.

Taking in a deep breath John pushed through the open door and shut it behind him. He limped slowly across the ground floor, cautiously approaching the stairs before telling himself to stop being ridiculous and picked up the Cain. He moved slowly, steadfastly ignoring all the memories of finding Sherlock the first time. As he came to the top step he found himself holding his breath, mentally preparing himself before he even knew what was going on.

Sherlock sat on the settee hastily shoving a folder of some kind behind him. John almost sighed with relief before frowning at his roommate. The detective sat upright, pinning the paper behind his back out of sight while his eyes danced around panicky and yet glued to the floor.

"You alright Sherlock?" John asked before he could help himself. Sherlock made a faint sound but it didn't form words he looked back down at the floor, "I saw Mycroft on his way out…"

A shade of irritation glazed across Sherlock's features and he huffed irritably.

"Mycroft is an irritating busybody."

He leapt to his feet in a flurry of motion and John didn't see the folder but it was gone from the settee as Sherlock darted across the room and brushed past John.

"Sherlock what-"

"I'll be in my room if you need me." Sherlock answered back abruptly and within a few more long strides he was gone and the door slammed smartly behind him.

John stared after him for a moment completely shocked. It took him awhile just to shut his mouth and walk slowly in to the main room. With a loud huff he dropped down in to his usual place and groaned in to his hands.

Whatever Mycroft had said it had done it now. He was locked up in 221B after having a fight with his flat mate and now on top of it said flat mate was in some kind of mood and wouldn't look him in the eye.

Bloody Holmeses

-S-

Late in to the night Sherlock sat silently on his bed glaring at the small pile of shredded paper at the foot of his bed. It didn't change anything but seeing the medical file rendered to pieces seemed to make him feel better.

Pressing his thin hands to his lips Sherlock dipped his head in thought. He hadn't nearly decimated the files enough, he could still read large clumps of text and it wouldn't have been hard to piece it back together. He could still take out more frustrations on the despicable creation…

But before he could make a move to carry out his plan the mobile in his pocket buzzed and he was on his feet in a moment, flipping it from his pocket and walking off the bed.

_Lestrade, crime scene, Brixton_

Sherlock strode from the room in a hurry, practically barging in to John in the hallway and not pausing once as he grabbed his coat and charged down the stairs. The Doctor called something after him but at this point Sherlock wasn't listening.

The case was on!

**Prob need to be rounding this story off but if there is anything you would like to see before the end, do feel free to tell me and I shall try to add it in. **

**Would love to hear what you guys think so far, reviews make writing go that bit faster : P  
>The next chapter should be on the way in time : ) <strong>

**Till next time  
>SQ<strong>


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